Sons of the Waste
by JenovaVII
Summary: AU ending for 2x10. Mike doesn't call Tess. He calls Harvey. Harvey/Mike/Harvey. Rated R.


**Title:** Sons Of The Waste  
**Author:** Jenova VII  
**Fandom | Disclaimer: **Suits © USA Network, Aaron Korsh  
**Timeline:** Season 2, Episode 10 - 'High Noon'  
**Pairing(s) | Character(s): **Harvey/Mike, mentioned Canon ensemble  
**What to expect | beware of:** reversible couple, un-romance, friendship, bizarre sense of humor, implied sex, first time, slice-of-life, random quoting  
**Rating: **R  
**Summary:** AU ending for 2x10. Mike doesn't call Tess. He calls Harvey.  
**A/N:** How I wish I got stoned with them. It was one of the best episodes, absolutely. First time writing for the lawyer boyfriends duo. This piece was supposed to be a ficlet but it grew way out of bounds. Was also supposed to be porn. I don't know what it became but, whatever it is, it's overdone.

* * *

"You really came."

Mike is still standing like an idiot against the door, not leaving any space to slither through and being an overall bad host even before his guest had stepped foot inside.

Harvey uses the hand not carrying any bags (with suspicious contents, one would assume, by the manner in which Mike is surveying them) and palms Mike's motionless body out of the way.

"Hey, you're the one who called me, remember, wonder memory boy."

"And you brought me pretzels," says Mike, still the same awed, disbelieving voice; still starring at Harvey like they'd just been catapulted into outer-space. He brightens a bit before shooting a "'_You ever make it to double pretzel level?_'" at Harvey.

Pretzel jokes are like nurse jokes and are, apparently, becoming their new thing as well. This one in particular makes him want to play Pac-Man. How nostalgic.

"'_Triple banana, bitch,_'" Harvey dead-pans. He shakes his hand, the plastic bag making dry, yielding noises. "I did wreck your stock last time. Bonus: I brought dinner, too."

That does it for Mike. Mention food and he's there in an instant, like a puppy wagging his tail, salivating for a scrap of meat or bone. He makes an incredibly childish and intetional shriek of "Burgers. '_I'm lovin' it_!'" and Harvey rolls his eyes.

Hands scribbled with permanent-marker ink swish a circular motion at Harvey's face and Harvey thinks Mike mouths on about "What, no slick? You out of gel?" but he is still reeling on _in_opportune, _totally un_wanted feelings of fondness for this kid with an hyperactive brain in front of him, and makes his intention of flicking Mike off known with an arrogant tilt of the head, slight narrowing of eyes.

Mike's grin is a threat to his face structure, one more teeth in view and he'd pull a muscle. His t-shirt makes contrast with his eyes and it's obfuscating to Harvey, almost as if he were looking at the sun directly.

Harvey averts his gaze, leaves the food on the coffee table and pulls off his hoodie. Outside was cool, inside is oddly stifling.

* * *

"I was really surprised when you just... up and lit up the joint, I mean, it was like—_WOW_!—you know?"

"Adequately coherent, as usual."

"Bring it down a notch with the 'I don't give a fuck', will you? _Reg_."

"Overstepping boundaries. Does it sound familiar? You see, that's funny, because I'm sure it's your hobby of election," says Harvey. "And don't get used to it, the other day it was a... particular occasion. A one-time thing. It will _not happen again_. Now, are we clear on that subject or do I need to repeat myself?"

"Wow. That sounded so dirty, I mean, it _was_ dirty but it sounds dirty-_dirty_, or no, yeah more like _filthy_-dirty, like we had a one-night stand or something, and this is your morning-after speech and—oh my _God_, _is_ this your morning-after speech?_!_—and we haven't even finished eating yet. Awesome—"

Harvey has a palm in the air, halting Mike.

"—or something."

"How are you even alive, do you ever stop and _breathe_?"

Mike opens his mouth.

Harvey says, "Don't answer that," and it sounds like a threat.

Mike presses his lips back together, licks them, opens his mouth again.

"Okay, first? You babbled as you wished and you still haven't answered my question. Second? I am a gentleman, there is no way I would put my partner through such discomfort as soon as they woke up, and in such a rude manner, to boot." One of Harvey's legs raises from the couch, crosses of the other. "All the basic terms of agreement would have been made clear before anything happened." It's a given.

Mike scoffs. "Oh, yeah, right. Because that is totally gentle and manly, prince-like even." Harvey watches as he stands, straightens his back, mimics pulling, putting on an imaginary suit jacket and buttoning it up. When he speaks his voice is unnaturally lower. "'Oh, excuse me, I'm giving you the honor of tapping _this_, so after the deed is done just rejoice quietly, remove your presence from my loft and never bother making me acknowledge your existence ever again.'" He curls his smirk an extra inch for combo effect.

"I should fire you, your impersonation of me is a thousand times more plausible when you're high. What does that tell you about you?"

"Please, _fire me_? You can't live _a whole day_ without me, Harvey, it's time to leave the denial phase behind and move on."

_Donna_. "You're getting too cheeky for my taste."

"Don't lie, you looo~~vee~~ me!"

Fantastic. Now Mike is putting his pineapple-voice to good use. Harvey mentally groans.

"I'm _exactly_ your taste. Your type is you. And I'm a reflection of you. Therefore your type is me."

Pure Mike-logic. Harvey laughs.

Mike immediately grins at him over his shoulder. "See?" he asks, all smugness and pride. "No one else makes you laugh like I do." And there's not an ounce of a lie in that statement, they both know it.

As Harvey looks up, their eyes meet. "Want me to help you with that?" he proposes, nodding at the glasses Mike is taking out of the cupboard.

Mike's brow furrows and he makes a face. Harvey can tell he's trying very hard not to smile. "What, with carrying a couple of glasses? I think I can manage, thank you, dear." The term of endearment comes out naturally, equal parts of teasing and true affection.

Harvey shakes his head. He conceals his amusement much better than Mike. "I meant to help with opening up the bottle of wine, actually."

"How did you—"

"Please. If we were having beer, it would be out already. You'd have chugged down at least one and the table is as empty of alcohol containers as I've ever seen it. And those are obviously wine glasses—which, by the way, I'm surprised you even possess, although they are a bit tasteless, but perhaps there is still hope for you." His hand flies in a subtle dismissing wave. "On the other hand, the wine. It's half-decent, I hope? You wouldn't dare give me cheap wine to drink, would you, Mike?"

"You're such a dick, Harvey. I went out of my way to buy the wine and do something nice and thank you properly for, you know, _everything_ and you—every shameless inch of you—come and feed me fast-food. I mean, heh, are we switching roles here? And after all that you're still making demands? Spoiled much, Harvey?"

"I'm hurt, _Michael_. Did you expect candles and Italian? I had no idea what you were after was my wealth." Mike makes choking noise and his body language tells Harvey that his associate couldn't quite believe Harvey had just 'Michael-d' him.

After recuperating, Mike says, "Dude, get real, I wouldn't leave you if you got fired, disbarred, convicted or dead." He's smiling. His tone is playful and light, but his eyes are dead-serious and the weight of his gaze does nothing to belittle the meaning of what he tries to skim through as their usual bouts of dog-barking. It only magnifies it.

There have always been healthy amounts of sarcasm in the flirty, teasing back-and-forth thing they have going on since the beginning. It's lacking though, sometimes. Most times, as of lately. And they pretend it's still there, all the time, and say nothing of it. Theirs had never been a conventional relationship, partnership, friendship, whatever-ship anyway. Not really.

And it would never be. Thank God.

It still baffles Harvey, now and then, how far they've come; the two of them and their bond. A bond with such improbable roots, that started on Harvey's whim, got so strong, and dare he say, unbreakable, if prone to seismic activity that only ends up strengthening said bond every time it gets put to test.

* * *

Mike's sofa is black. The rug is green and looks like a badly maintained patch of grass. There are a few vases, a couple of windows, patterned pillows, bicycle wheels on the wall, a black pipe somewhere on the shelves, a clock ticking.

The panda on the wall has Harvey frozen in place.

Harvey remembers the night after Edith Ross left the world, left Mike; the night Mike felt the ground crumble from under his feet for the second time in his life. And Harvey could have sworn he could hear the animal munching at the bamboo sticks on that damned night—the reminder than he hadn't visited the coffee-cart guy in a while—and the sound it had made had sounded quite similar to _hardass hardass hardass_.

"How absolutely inappropriate," Harvey says out loud. Or thinks he did, because Mike doesn't point it out, doesn't interrogate him, doesn't pry. All things which should be happening by now, any second now, but.

But Mike had wanted, for whatever reason, to watch The Sixth Sense, which just, no. Harvey had managed to slip in Back To The Future instead, and it definitely hadn't gone any better. Mike had drowned into depression-mood anyway, exactly what Harvey had been trying to evade.

Leading them to the present moment.

Mouth flooding with half-masticated fries, Mike says, softly, "I wanted you there. I _needed_ you there, fuck, I did, Harvey, but I couldn't just—"

Jesus Christ, the DeLorean needed a serious light-year long wash-up. "Drop it, Mike," Harvey reprimands, trying for cold nonchalance. Then, "I thought of being there too, you know?" _I __**wish**__ I'd been there. __**For you.**_

Damn, he's getting soft. Too soft.

Mike snaps at attention, fixing him with bright, aqua-wet eyes. The long-shed tears are nowhere in sight but they don't need to be. "Harvey, that... means a lot. Thanks." He smiles, small and real and happy. He bites his lip for a second—Harvey sees white scraping pink—and then he's taking a huge bite out of his cheeseburger.

Harvey shrugs, non-concomitant. He re-fills his glass. A drop pools right on the rim of the bottleneck. "It's nothing."

Who is he kidding. It's plutonium. It's time-traveling. It's everything.

* * *

Mike looks so earnest now, like he does all the time—at image of how he works their cases, caring about the people, getting to know them; how he goes... how he went about his grandmother, visiting her whenever he could manage, doing his best to make her comfortable; how he violates Harvey's personal space and how he's built himself his own safe-house inside it. But Harvey blinks and yes, aside from the permanent eagerness, there is something else there.

Resignation.

It makes Harvey scowl at the realization of it. IIt reminded him of something utterly unpleasant. It reminded him of _Trevor_.

""What's wrong?""

"Uh?"

"What?"

"..."

"..."

Mike cracks up. Harvey does not; he reigns it in and allows a barely there twitch-up of the lip.

"You got all silent on me and were staring a hole at my face, so."

"Never mind that." Harvey shrugs it off, casually clears his throat. "What is the matter with _you_?"

"Okay, at the risk of being repetitive here, but. _Uh_?"

"Something is clearly bothering you, and you're keeping it from me. Tell me what it is."

A slow grin stretches over Mike's mouth and Harvey is already dreading what is about to come out through it.

"Is this—" Mike points a finger and gestures at the space between them. "Is this you, Harvey Specter, caring—_caring_—about me, Mike Ross? 'Cause Harvey, this is big, this is _huge_. And it feels great, it feels awesome, I'm flattered, like, a lot. But man, you have to work your social skills because even when you're worrying, you're a bossy prick."

"Mike."

"It's nothing, Harvey, it's no big deal. It won't interfere with our jobs so there's no need for you to be all over me, okay? I can take care of myself."

The words force a pang on Harvey's chest and he can hear everything Mike doesn't add. He can hear the _I've been doing it all along_, the _I'm alone now, it's the second time, I know how it is, I can do it again_.

And it hurts.

It hurts because Harvey knows it too, that pain, knows it all too well, he's had to go through it two times as well. It's too much. They're too alike, too Goddamn alike, in the good and in the bad. But wasn't that what he'd wanted? Wasn't an 'another me' what he'd wanted? Shouldn't he be happy? Isn't he happy?

He is.

He's happy he has Mike even though he denies it whenever confronted with it.

There's no need to verbalize what goes on on the inside, after all it'll only make the people you open up to leave all the sooner. It leaves you exposed, pathetic, _weak_, right there and convenient for them to walk all over you, squash you, break you apart and not bother to collect the bits.

Harvey has a fatal disease-face on, now. A coiled-anger, fatal disease-face that makes Mike wince. The fact that Harvey isn't making any effort to hide his emotions, his quiet fury, makes it painfully obvious to Mike that that had not been the right answer for him to give.

"This isn't about the firm, Mike," Harvey starts, piercing Mike with the dark intensity of his eyes. "This is about you. You're the one who's always blurting and bragging and going about it so don't be stupid. I do care about you. I'm concerned. Logically so. So talk to me about it."

The stunned look on Mike's face does the opposite of _not_ pissing Harvey off.

"Goddamn it," Harvey mutters as he brings a hand to his face, scrubs at his forehead with the heel. "This Goddamned kid..."

When Mike starts to chuckle, Harvey wants to kill him with the greasy French fries that had fallen to the ground and acquired inumerous bacteria. But just thinking about it that much, feeling about it that strongly was making the whole thing start to border on premeditated murder. Harvey makes a disgusted face; bacteria aside, that poor excuse of a rug is ratty and looks awful upon the wooden floor.

"Hey, Harvey," Mike calls, voice gone soft and somehow cocky and unsure at the same time. Harvey has to push his dark thoughts away for a bit and look at him because he just sounds so—

"Can we..." Mike drops his head and laughs nervously for a second, pressing his hands together.

—vulnerable.

Those blue eyes pierce Harvey. That pink mouth blurts out and the broken words sound similar to "Can we hug?"

Harvey just stands there, staring at Mike, legs splayed, knees apart, one hand still touching his forehead, the other tightening involuntarily around the glass—half-full or half-empty, he can't tell—of red liquid. It looks like blood and it tastes nothing like grapes.

Mike's eyes widen, like someone had snapped their fingers in front of him and he only at that precise moment had understood what he'd just said, asked, sputtered.

And as soon as he does realize it he's apologizing, turning it into a joke, taking it back.

No. No, he isn't. Not yet, at least.

But he would, is about to, Harvey knows, is sure of it.

Because he knows Mike. He _knows_ him.

So while Mike—eyes glazed, mouth gaping, lips gluing together by a thread at one corner—is still trying to climb out of whichever hole he'd crawled into, Harvey is up and walking to him and then kneeling, his black jeans collecting myriads of dust and cotton and all kinds of disgusting things that happily proliferate Mike's nest.

Harvey knows he cares about Mike, knows he cares too much, far more than he should have let himself care. But who would have known it would come to _this_? Harvey Specter, the best closer in Manhattan, doesn't kneel for anyone. Expect for _his_ associate, ex (and then not so much) pot-head, degree-less, bicycle-riding, skinny-tie wearing puppy, Mike Ross, it seems.

He has it bad. No wonder Donna teases him to hell and back about it.

Mike startles, looks at him, swallows—maybe some saliva, maybe desert-dry. The lump of his apple is moving under the tender skin of his throat like it wants to rip right through, escape somewhere, anywhere.

"Harvey, don't—I was—" _just kidding._

"No. You weren't," says Harvey, patiently, unforgiving. He's not sure where exactly the patience has come from. He is on edge himself. There are too many feelings, an undercurrent of them, curling inside his thorax and he isn't nowhere in the mood to decrypt them. The matter at hand is more important, at any rate; Mike's mental equilibrium—or as close as it ever gets to balanced—takes precedence to Harvey's own emotional self-discovery (Or emotional evolution. More like emotional regression, perhaps. It could go either way.) and consequent self-reproach.

Harvey sighs. He rests his elbows on Mike's knees, makes it clear that he's waiting and won't bulge from there. This—the random (or not), inadequate (or not) touching is normal for them; starting to avoid something that has become a ritual of sorts due to revelations of a deeper level wouldn't do any good to either of them.

Or so Harvey rationalizes. It makes him feel safer—caging impulses, finding reasons.

And Mike... Mike doesn't look happy at all.

"I don't get you, Harvey. Whenever I shared my personal life with you, you made sure to drive it in that you wanted nothing to do with the drama, that you couldn't care less. Drive it in _with a baseball bat_."

"And since when did you let that stop you from reporting it to me, regardless? Why is that stopping you _now_? What's different this time?"

Mike produces some kind of groan. "Just, let it go, Harvey."

Not far from a plead. But it was still not pleading the fifth.

Giving up? Not on Harvey's dictionary; not while there's another way out, not until there's nothing left to salvage, to dig, to obtain. "Is it Rachel? I didn't realize you were dating."

Were they? Mike had said he didn't want a relationship based on a lie. And he'd ended up not telling Rachel about their secret, like Harvey had been sure he wouldn't, of that Harvey's certain.

The laugh that slips through Mike's lips is weak and carries no humor.

"Nope," he emphasizes with a _pop_. "Not Rachel. I've had enough with that." Mike sags and drops his head to the back of the couch, letting it lull with the momentum. "I should have known," he murmurs, as if an after-thought that was meant to stay inside.

Harvey grabs the rope before it disappears completely. "Should have known what?"

He doesn't appreciate the sensation akin to relief that washes over him at the tone of finality Mike uses regarding the on-and-off 'thing' he and Rachel had been keeping on a vase, just giving it enough water for it not to die but not giving it the nutrients necessary to allow it to grow healthy.

Utter lack of knowledge or interest or self-confidence or what, Harvey isn't sure. But if it were Harvey... if it were Harvey, he'd never keep a plant, a living-being, on such a half-hearted way. He'd take it under his wing, feed it, give it proper amounts of light and shadow, talk to it, let it know it had someone looking over it while giving it space to grow on its own, to reach its full potential, even if he had to be a little harsh by cutting some of its stems so it could re-emerge even stronger and—

Oh.

_Oh_.

But he _does_ have one, doesn't he? A plant.

His plant is Mike.

And Mike is growing up and reaching out and soon, soon he will be brilliant. Soon, he'll make Harvey proud of him. He already does. When it had come to it and Harvey had told him he was proud of him (instead of firing him, as Jessica had ordered him to), Mike had reacted as if he'd been struck by lightening. The kid acts cocky as they come but beneath the surface he craves the encouraging and aproval—_Harvey's_ encouraging and approval, more than anyone else's—so badly it thrums through his whole body, shows in his eyes, with his actions, his words.

"Should've known better than to use her as a substitute."

A substitute. Rachel. For someone else. _Who?_

"...Jenny?"

_Still?_

Mike doesn't stiffen, but he does take a while to answer back. As if he was deciding if to go ahead and go with that one or tell Harvey the truth, consequences be damned and—

"No," Mike says, tired and weary and _old_. "Not Jenny, no." Old like he'd been stashing whatever this is away for so long, so surely, and now the cracks are finally making through.

Not Rachel. Not Jenny. Someone who means more, who actually means _something_ to Mike. Someone other that Mike's grandmother, other than _Harvey,_ who matters _so much_ to him. Someone who Harvey hadn't been told about.

A knot in his stomach makes itself known, none too proudly, squeezing the meat and sesame seeds and the acid juices bottled inside. Harvey breathes and forces himself to _snap the hell out of it_.

"You've got too much time on your hands, Mike. I'm not slaving you hard enough if you're able to go clubbing and picking up on your spare time."

He'd attempted a mocking jab, and it works. Only not a hundred percent. Hopefully Mike will be too stung to read between the lines.

He slides his arms until his palms grab Mike's legs instead and give a light squeeze, trying to coax a reaction, a come-back out of him.

Mike's gaze travels from the window to the ceiling. "Do you really want to know, Harvey?" he asks, as if he didn't know the answer already. Making time. Evading. Cooking a way out, with eyes fixed on a spider's web , dangling haphazardly from high above.

Harvey won't have it. Mike's out-of-the-box thinking isn't for his benefit in this situation so the way to deal with it is to step on it. Step on it and make it screech like a bald tire uselessly hoping for a final drift before its demise. It will spring right back up—the snappy-snarky-lippy-Mike mode—immediately, as soon as Harvey raised his foot, took his shoe from the top of it. Harvey isn't worried. Not about that.

"Do you really not want me to know this badly? Why are you going to such lengths to keep it from me, Mike? Being shy? I thought we had no secrets. And when I say 'we', what I mean is I thought _you_ kept no secrets from _me_, not the other way around, of course."

Mike snickers with mirth. "_Of course_."

"Glad we're clear on that. How about this: you tell me what I want to know, and then you can have your hug." Induced response, like Pavlov's dog.

"Your negotiator skills outside of work leave much to be desired."

"So you don't want to hug anymore, I presume? Fine by me, have it your way then." Harvey gives Mike's knee a slap and borrows it for support to get up.

"If I told you," Mike says, voice white and flat and empty, made of nothing but sound without a meaning. "I'd never get the hug."

Harvey looks down at Mike from his full weight. "Not following."

"You _are_ working me like a slave, Harvey," he says, almost impatient but stomping it down, as he follows the spider spinning gymnastics by its invisible line with his eyes for some unknown reason. "It's not Jenny, it's not Rachel. And before you go there it's not Donna. Or Jessica." There's a pause. "And it sure as hell isn't Louis," he snickers. "I haven't met anyone new 'cause, in case you didn't get the message: _you're working me like a slave_."

Harvey opens his mouth but Mike beats him to it. "_I know_ why you're doing it, and it's fine, it's... it's fine, it's taking my mind off of other things, it's having the effect you mean it to have."

Harvey's line sinks. As long as Mike knows.

"Also, apparently lately any free time you _do_ give me is spent—" Mike lets his arms spread open, like wings, encompassing his cave of an apartment, the carton packages of food, the TV, himself, Harvey. "—like this." The _With __**you**_ is so blatant Harvey goes a bit numb. "So you tell me, Harvey." And he finally turns his gaze back to Harvey. "Who do you think it is that I fell and can't get back on my feet for."

Harvey can't possibly see what his own face looks like then but, by the self-deprecating way Mike's mouth bends, he knows he must have been making that slight scrunch of the eyebrows, his lips separating in a silent _oh._

"Yeah. Not so much for a hug now, uh? You were right, Harvey, if there's one thing I do get..." Mike doesn't look away, keeps looking straight at Harvey and if under oath Harvey could not deny how impressed he is. "...is how to ruin it."

Harvey blinks, says, "I'm always right," every bit smug and he says it so naturally it's still fascinating to Mike, every time. "You, however, not so much, junior. Get up. Come here. Come on. On your feet."

"Really? You gonna punch me? At least do it while I'm sitting, have some mercy. There was this one time Trevor threw me one—which, by the way, was totally your fault—"

Trevor.

"Mike."

"—and I just, fell, to the ground. It wasn't pretty, dude, I'm a wrestler, not a pugilist."

_Trevor_.

"_Mike_."

"Shit. Okay, just." Mike closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. "After this can we, like, rewind? Forget the embarrassing confession? 'Cause I really, really don't—I _can't_ lose what we had—_have_, still, I hope—"

Harvey shuts him up with a kiss.

It isn't elegant, something that he isn't too proud of, but Mike always exasperates him, juggles his thoughts, makes him re-think things he'd be otherwise irrevocably certain of. Their teeth collide even through the layers of their lips, it's painful, immediately exploding in soreness and wrongness and, yes, when Mike gasps and makes a kind of silent, aleatory whimper and opens his mouth, Harvey's tongue takes the opportunity and pushes inside, the taste of metal definitely overtaking the ketchup and wine and everything is red and actually combines now.

He opens his eyes to see Mike's screwed shut, tightly, feels blunt, short nails digging into his triceps, lips messy against his. He doesn't feel _breathing_ though, so he licks Mike's bottom lip on the way out and pulls back.

"So. Still want to—what was it you said... 'rewind'? 'Forget the embarrassing—"

Mike shuts him up with a kiss.

Again with the interruptions. Disrespect. And it isn't nice to Harvey's ego that Mike, who is all heart and dreams and impulse, starts out gentle and soft and slow, hands at the back of his head, fingertips brushing the short hair at his nape, sure fingers grasping his hip, while he should be the clumsy one of the two. This is new for them, this is unknown territory, this is a side of Mike he's just now learning about.

Harvey graciously kicks off his shoes, becomes as feet-naked as Mike, bumps toes with him as he hugs Mike's lower back and steers them to a division that would luckily and preferably be a room with a bed.

* * *

It doesn't have a bed. It has a lavatory. And a shower stall.

The latter will be of good use later, _after_, and Harvey stores the geographic location on the side.

Mike laughs at him—of course he does, how could he not?—for a minute or two or more (one arm draped around Harvey's shoulder, shaking slightly, face buried on his throat) for leading them to the wrong place and asks him stupid question along the lines of _how could Harvey get it wrong, his place is tiny for God's sake_ and _how had they only noticed when their legs bumped into the laundry-basket_.

Harvey makes a mean face but Mike knows the wrinkles at the corner of his eyes, like waves rippling with the tide, molding the sand at its leisure, knows the stillness of his jaw when he doesn't allow himself to smile because Harvey's being Harvey and it only makes the ridiculous laughter stop to turn into a fond smile that is too much for Harvey to take. Because Harvey doesn't do emotions, or at least he's been telling himself he doesn't for a long time, and Mike might very well be his biggest weakness as well as his biggest asset but the kid's too full of himself already, so.

So Harvey dives for a hard, mean press of lips that leaves Mike seeing stars and takes him by the arm to the right room this time.

* * *

"What do you want, Mike?" Harvey asks, pulls Mike's clothes off, shirt up, ruffling his already unkempt hair, jeans down skinny hips. His own clothing is gone by the time they fall onto the rumpled cold sheets on Mike's bed.

Their warm bodies shiver at the contact, at the contrast in temperature.

"Everything," Mike says, pawning at him, pulling Harvey close, closer still. "Your hand, mouth, cock, on me, in me. Mine, me, all over and inside you. I want _everything_. But, right now, I'll take _anything_ you'll give me."

"God, you're so desperate."

Mike puts a scoff and a sob in a mixer and shakes it to homogeneity. "You have no idea. There's lube in that drawer. Hurry."

Harvey understands; he wants to hurry up and connect their bodies, put it on the same level as their minds. Their physicality has always been present, yes, but now it's sealing the deal for good. Taking the final step.

While the lines had been crossed, and intertwined, a long time before, _this was it_. No turning back. It's too important.

This is _them_.

Not the firm, with Jessica and Hardman and their spitting contest and Louis as the bucket; not Mike's dead parents and crashed cars and dead grandmother and meaningless (for the moment) Manhattan apartments and dead family twice over for a kid who doesn't—who _isn't able _to forget; not Harvey's cheating, groupie of a mother and nights alone in the dark; not Mike's expulsion from college; not Harvey's mail-room days: not Mike's poor choice of childhood, best (_worst_) friends; not Harvey's record collection and single malt Scotch dripping down cold, gray stone; not Mike's self-destructive behavior; not weed spread all over the floor of room 2005 and winks from red-heads and electrifying handshakes and Rick 'what-is-even-his-face' Sorkin.

Bullshit. It's all of that. Because all of that is what they are made of.

After this there will be no place untouched between them. And they'll be so great. They're going to be great together, Mike is sure of it like he's sure of something, anything, everything he's ever read.

They're going to fight and yell and converge and diverge and laugh and kiss and fuck and eat and walk and talk and joke and watch and mock and close and win and lose and cry and smoke and lie and play and pretend and work and sweat and hug and change and stay and leave and return and wonder and know and want and choose and disagree and touch and understand and live and _care_.

And they'll make the best _and_ the most (because quality over quantity, sure, but if the quality is at the top already then why not make more of the good stuff?) out of it, out of everything, until there is truly nothing left.

They'll conquer it all.

* * *

"There's come on my stomach."

Harvey inhales.

"There's come on _your_ stomach."

Harvey exhales.

"There's come in places that—"

Harvey growls. It's rather intimidating, if he says so himself.

Mike snickers, uncontrolled and young and beautiful. "What now? Hard, asphalt-lacking, hole-filled, traffic-muddled roads ahead?"

"'_Roads? We don't need roads where we're going._'"

Mike studies him. Asks, hopeful, tentative, "To be continued?"

Harvey returns the stare, dares Mike to try and read him.

They shut whatever the other would say next with a kiss.


End file.
